The Billionaire's Captive: Debt Of Love

Harper was marched down a plush, velvet-lined corridor in the VIP wing. Her hand was wrapped in a rag she'd found backstage, but the blood was already soaking through.

"Move," the guard grunted, shoving her shoulder.

She stumbled, her patience fraying. She calculated the strike points on his neck. Carotid sinus. Vagus nerve. She could drop him in three seconds. But there were cameras everywhere.

Suddenly, the corridor ahead erupted into chaos.

A door to one of the private suites burst open. A group of men spilled out, shouting.

"Help! Someone call 911!"

A heavy-set man in a tuxedo lay on the carpet, clawing at his chest. His face was the color of putty, his lips tinged blue. He was making a horrible gurgling sound.

The guards stopped, unsure what to do.

Harper looked at the man. Mr. King. She recognized him from the tabloids. Hedge fund manager.

He wasn't breathing.

"He's coding!" a woman screamed.

A waiter dropped to his knees and started pushing on the man's stomach.

"No!" Harper shouted. "You're going to rupture his spleen! Stop!"

She didn't think. She couldn't help it. It was the Solis curse-they couldn't watch people die.

Harper shoved past her guards. They were too distracted to stop her. She sprinted to the fallen man and dropped to her knees, shoving the waiter aside.

"Back off!" she commanded. Her voice had a steel edge that made everyone freeze.

Harper ripped open Mr. King's shirt buttons. His chest was silent. No rise and fall. She pressed her fingers to his neck. No pulse.

"He's gone," someone whispered.

"Not yet," Harper muttered.

She didn't start CPR. There wasn't time. His heart had likely stopped or was in a useless rhythm. He needed a shock, but there was no AED.

She needed to restart his heart manually. A long shot, but the only one he had.

With her bloody hand, she reached into a hidden pocket in her sleeve and palmed a tiny, sealed vial containing a high-dose stimulant. It was a last resort, something she'd synthesized for Nana's worst angina attacks.

"What is she doing?" a guard shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Let her."

The voice came from the end of the hall. It was calm, cold, and carried absolute authority.

Harper didn't look up. She knew that voice.

Her movements were a blur. She tilted King's head back, pinched his nose, and using a small, one-way valve she also carried, blew two sharp breaths into his lungs. Then, she positioned the heel of her good hand over his sternum.

With a sharp cry, she delivered a single, powerful precordial thump-a controlled strike designed to mechanically jolt the heart. As her hand came down, her other hand, the one with the vial, discreetly pressed against a major artery in his neck, the thin needle of the auto-injector piercing the skin for a fraction of a second.

One second. Two. Three.

Mr. King's body arched off the floor. He let out a massive, ragged gasp, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.

Color flooded back into his cheeks. His eyes flew open, terrified.

The hallway went dead silent.

Harper slumped back, the adrenaline crashing. She quickly tucked the empty vial back into her sleeve, a secret kept in the chaos.

"Get him to a hospital," she said, standing up. Her legs felt shaky.

She turned to leave, hoping to disappear in the confusion.

A hand clamped around her wrist. Her bad wrist. The one she'd cut on the wire.

Harper gasped in pain and spun around.

She was staring into the ice-blue eyes of Finn Burke.

He was sitting in his wheelchair, blocking the path. He looked older than ten years ago. His jaw was sharper, covered in a shadow of stubble. His shoulders were broad under his suit jacket. But the eyes... the eyes were the same.

He looked at her bleeding hand, then at her face. He reached out and tugged down the hood of her bodysuit.

"Hello, Harper," he said softly.

The sound of her name on his tongue made Harper's skin crawl.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He scribbled something on it, tore it out, and held it up.

It was a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

"For the show," he said, his lip curling. "And for saving Mr. King. Though I daresay the world would have been better off without him."

Harper stared at the check. "Five hundred thousand?"

"Is that not your rate?" He tilted his head. "You risked your life on a wire for peanuts. You saved a billionaire with a punch to the chest. You're quite the bargain."

He was mocking her. He knew she needed the money. He knew everything.

"I need fifty thousand," Harper said, her voice trembling with rage. "For Nana Rose."

Finn's expression didn't change. "I know."

He let go of her wrist, wiping her blood off his fingers with a silk handkerchief.

"Follow me."